


Fall

by CozyCryptidCorner



Series: The Four Seasons [2]
Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, Exophilia, F/F, F/M, Oral Sex, Pegging, Sexual Fantasy, fae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: The Sinner wants you back. Even for a single night, that would be enough for him to convince you to stay.
Relationships: Fae/Reader, Monster/Reader
Series: The Four Seasons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837174
Comments: 46
Kudos: 262





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tasty little sequel to _Winter._

When Tristian first pictured the eventual reunion, long after you abandoned him, he had imagined that you would be on your knees, subjugate, eyes glazed over with tears as you quietly beg for forgiveness. You’d place a hand on his thigh, your wrist bare and holding the mark- _his_ mark, and you would bring your face so very close to where his stiff member is trying desperately to push itself out from his pants.

You would only touch it when he gave you permission because he had planned for so long to make you suffer for every night he spent alone without your warmth to share. He had tried remembering your voice, the lilts, the accent, the way you even muttered under your breath when you didn’t think he could hear, but can’t seem to make his dream you sound quite the same in his mind, like you’re already fading out of his memory, your voice as the first to go.

The thought was of no small panic, either, because the sharp pain in his chest at thinking his soul was so fallible that it should soon muddy the bliss of knowing his soulmate felt like a sword plunging itself through his heart. But after scrambling the words around in desperate hope of reigniting your voice, he realizes that he can’t actually see you offer any sort of apologies, nor would you spend any time on your knees for him.

Not until he does so first.

It’s such revelations as these, a new kind of fantasy is quick to unfold, even if he might not have seen himself in such a position prior. But still… the idea of being naked, at your feet, as you listen to him offer up meager and desperate apologies sends hot, pinching blood straight to his member. He’s not certain _why_ this image is somehow more arousing than the other way around- Tristan has been at both ends of lusty actions, each has their benefits- but when he finally touches himself, he almost lets out a needy yelp.

In an odd kind of parody of the first and only time, he actually knew your body, his singular role to adore what you allow him to ravish.

He remembers the expression you had during the final banquet, cold, harsh, thinly veiled rage simmering beneath the surface of your skin as you watched him dance with some nameless wench- he can’t yet remember who. But he did remember how you almost _vibrated_ with anger, even though you did your best to throw up an uncaring facade. Tristan isn’t entirely sure if the others of his court noticed, but he likes to think his time alone with you made him privy to your odd ticks and habits.

That’s the face he imagines you have then, while he’s naked and on his knees, looking up at you with a kind of feverish adoration that he thinks his pumping erection may kill him for. The taste of your anger and your rage is so _raw,_ so unadulterated by a tangled web of social cues and faux pas. He would put a hand on your thigh, _pleading_ with your unforgiving eyes to allow him the pleasure of pressing his lips against your skin.

It would be entirely out of character for you to do nothing but kick him back down, at least, for the first time. But that is to be expected, Tristan had to wait for you to appear for centuries, he likes to think he has the patience of a withered ghost. He will try again, and again, and again, as many times as it takes for you to finally let him in, cracking the door to your heart open just enough for him to slither through.

Tristan had always intended to return the favor you gave when on your knees for him, but he hadn’t realized that it would be a while for him to do so. With all his experience, he should think it would be a simple matter of gauging for your reaction when his tongue slides over the puckered flesh of your pussy. Again, he’s a capable lover, though you’re the only one who seemed to be chagrin to even admit it, and he has a reputation to uphold.

He imagines that you will resist giving him anything beyond tangling your fingers tightly in his hair, biting at your lip to keep from accidentally moaning. Yet, he will fight to get you to whimper his name, and he is, after all, _relentless._ There is nothing else for him but success in this battle of wills, so after placing your legs over his shoulders, he’ll grab onto your hips to keep you steady against his mouth.

In most of his fantasies, you’re sitting on the same chair as he did during your first experimental escapade, hands braced against the armrests so tight he can hear the crackling of wood beneath your nails. In lonely nights such as this, he wonders if you might have been more likely to stay if he unleashed all his sexual prowess at once, if he fucked you so good that you walked with a limp. Maybe he would have been able to catch up with you, then, if you were slower to leave-

Trembling, he tries to refocus on the imaginary version of you, his cock in his hand. Where was he, again… oh, yes, his face is buried between your legs. Instead of focusing solely on your clit, he thinks he will try to explore what other tender spots may hide behind your folds. Where he might find them, he’s not entirely sure, but he allows himself to give his fantasy version of you some much-deserved liberties.

You had always been slow to show any sort of weakness, and Tristan supposes that the two of you have that in common, but when it comes to sex? There is something positively intoxicating with the vulnerability that occurs with nakedness, especially when it comes to a night of lovemaking. He had thought that the night you left would be the first time he could know you- _really_ know you, and-

He shakes the thought off, again, closing his eyes and restarting the fantasy, his tongue lapping at your folds. Based solely on the last meager interaction, he supposes that this will be the point where the muscles in your thighs begin to twitch, an orgasm approaching, your tongue and lip almost to the point of being bloody from biting down. Tristan figures that adding his long, slender fingers to the frenzy may be enough to send you over the edge, and in his imagination, he’s correct.

Of course, he knows better than to let up until the shaking of your core begins to cease, and he tries to picture your face as you succumb to the pleasure he gives. There are many ways you may ride your orgasm out, and he is uncertain which path you would take. You might pull at his hair in sharp, hard tugs to look into his eyes, maybe even allow him the dignity of moaning his name, or even say someone else’s, just for the sake of hurting him. It really would all hinge on your mood, but he supposes that he is as well with any of them. As long as you’re _beside him._

Oh, what else might you do to hurt him? Tristan imagines your hand around his throat, squeezing just to see the brief panic in his eyes. A part of him wants to think that you would be drawn back to his side, if only for the carnal sexual pleasure uniquely achieved by the union of mates, but he is well aware that you would _hate_ that part of yourself, and, by extension, him. The sex that would stem from such an instance would be nigh apocalyptic, but isn’t that the best of its kind?

Tristan wonders if you would take him behind, roughly, with a false cock longer than most males possess naturally. Perhaps you would make love to him with one, or maybe you would fuck him so hard he’d be bedridden in the morning, he’s not sure which outcome is more desirable. Unconsciously, he bites at the palm of his hand, the one containing the mark, to draw his own pleasure out a bit longer.

_Gods below,_ he would give anything to see you, a strap around your waist, with a long, majestic shaft he would lick and kiss to show you how much he’d want it. You’d make him take the entire length into his throat, and he’d do it with such enthusiasm that he might cum from the actions only. Or perhaps he’d put on more of a show, since you cannot feel the pleasure that deepthroating would bring, using his tongue to trace a thousand nonsensical patterns onto the artificial flesh.

Surely you’d grab his hair while he pretends to pleasure the shaft, tugging dangerously tight, but he thinks he will enjoy the pain in his scalp. Tristan figures that keeping his eyes hooded, lustfully staring at his work, like he is nothing more than a brainless whore that only wishes to please, you might be more merciful to his own need for pleasure. When all is said and done, he isn’t certain when you would pull him off, but he would make sure to _pop_ off as noisily as possible just to be a tease.

Again, he’s not sure if you would take him as a lover, or take him like a slut. Tonight, though, he imagines that you would be rough, spinning him around so you could knead his ass, hard enough that your nails would leave bright pink marks on his milky and smooth skin. Tristan would like to grind up against your waist, but you probably wouldn’t stand for it.

There would be no doubt that he’d prepared himself for the monstrous length you would most likely choose, cumming before from merely the anticipation of you angrily pounding into his shapely ass. The oil that you will smear onto your false cock always starts out cold, but he doubts that you will give him time to adjust.

The noises he would make, good _gods,_ if only you could hear them now, it might be enough to tempt you back into his arms. Tristan wouldn’t try to hide his pleasure the same way you would, no, he would make sure you understood how good you feel inside him. He knows that you’re one of those people who seem to enjoy watching someone become undone, so he would give you a show, alright, one that you wouldn’t walk out on again.

You wouldn’t let him touch himself, even when he breathlessly whines for you to do so. Humiliation and shame fill his blood, making his erection roar as he pictures himself _begging_ for you to allow him to pump his almost painfully hard member. Still, drunk on power, you would probably wait until his keening and yearning would be diluted to nearly nonsensical moaning before you relented, making sure to offer a solid spank to remind him to thank you.

It wouldn’t be a particularly long and arduous path to spill his seed, but it would be an explosive and pleasurable one nonetheless. When he cums, in real life, the orgasm doesn’t bring forth the same kind of shaking sensations that teeter on the edge of pain and pleasure, there’s only a slow ribbon of sperm and shake of his pelvis, and it’s over. He expects you to draw it out, horribly torturous, but still so deliciously perfect that it must be nirvana.

In the dark, Tristan wonders if shedding tears might appeal to your merciful side, or if such a show of weakness would only propel you to take him even harder once you’d allow him time to recover. No kisses, Tristan believes that you would take some time to come to terms with how your and his bodies work together perfectly before you’d kiss him again. So he would end up laying there, on his own, because you would refuse to so much as _look_ at him once all is over.

It would be what he deserves.

A hand snakes over in the dark, his bedmate reaching down to stroke Tristan’s now-limp cock in an effort to tease it back to full length. A kiss ghosts over the shell of his ear, and the heat of arousal fills his veins once more, though the cold touch of guilt fills his chest alongside it.

“You should have told me you needed help, love,” a breathy whisper sends shivers down his spine as Fiacre drapes one of his legs over Tristan’s.

“I didn’t wish to bother you when you were sleeping so peacefully, your grace.” There’s always a tone of resentment in Tristan’s voice when he speaks to the king, and he thinks that’s why Fiacre seems to be keen on returning to his bed chambers.

“You know that these matters are of no bother to me.” A tongue snakes out, licking up the length of Tristan’s hardening cock.

“Of course, my apologies,” Tristan’s hand finds its way into the head of dark curls, tangling his fingers the same way he’d imagine you’d do to him. Once his member is appropriately aroused, Tristan is quick to push Fiacre’s head down, as far as the king would allow, and tries to ignore where he is.

Even though he craves it, he doesn’t _need_ you to do those things to him. After all, you’ve abandoned him, so he will take his own pleasure where he can freely get it.


	2. Adoration

The night air is so cold that it _burns_ your lungs as you breathe in. The streetlights sporadically light the pitch streets, a layer of mist reflecting the acidic yellow electricity. Arms crossed over your chest, you arrive at the seemingly abandoned building, wishing that you were back in your decaying apartment, snuggled up to your toddler daughter. The high heels of your suede boots click against the cobblestone sidewalk, the sound punctuating an otherwise silent night.

Throwing your shoulders back and raising your spine, you walk like you have an immeasurable amount of burnable income at your disposal. Like you have no worries except to purchase an inordinate amount of magical objects for some old man who just likes shiny things. The bouncer at the door of the auction is a large, burly creature, one that outputs an image of a man who might very well be a wrestler.

You produce your carefully forged documents with the air of someone who is mildly inconvenienced. The creature looks over them, faces pinched in concentration as it tries to look for any sign of fakeness, but the person who supplies you is _good._ Quickly, your bag is also searched, but since you aren’t carrying any spells or cursed objects, it’s of little interest to magical beings, which you find almost laughable. Not finding anything, the thing nearly tosses the documents back at you, clearly unhappy with your supposed authenticity enough that you wonder if it gets to eat the liars.

Casting that thought away, you walk in, an explosion of color, song, and dance reverberating through your bones and teeth. If you hadn’t expected the sudden burst of stimulus, it might have thrown you for a loop, but you’ve been to these seedy magical places enough to know exactly how everything goes down. Placing your folder of falsified documents back under your arm, you begin to walk through the club, dodging both muddled-blooded fae and humans searching for thrills beyond what they might find elsewhere.

You’re very quick to weave your way through the club, not bothering to hide the fact that you have a particular goal in mind. Most people are too involved with their vices to spare you a second glance- and the reputation this club has as an underground marketplace for just about anything you could ever need if you ask the right people, no one bothers to challenge you about your presence. Like they’d even want to know.

Luckily, you’re not vetted again as you step into another large, domed chamber, so you stuff your documents into your messenger bag. Pushing up a pair of thickly rimmed glasses, you quickly run through an internal list of what you need. First and foremost, you need to locate a particular object, but you can’t seem so needy; otherwise, you’ll be picked apart in the appraisal. So you start to wander through the vendors, knowing better than to touch anything, pretending like you’re just here to see what you can buy.

There’s a strange acidic tang to the area, which could almost be identified as faint sulfur. It’s a familiar scent; you recognize it almost intimately, even though it’s been years since you last tried your hand at blood magic. The hairs on your arms press up against the fabric of your long sleeves, your heart thrumming faster in your chest, your soul almost trying to pry itself from your body. Trying desperately to stay in the moment, you pinch the skin on the palm of your hand, gritting your teeth.

Soldiering on, you bite your lip down as you continue wandering around the vendors, trying not to breathe too deeply, deciding it’s probably best to go hunt down that sacred sword forged in the fires of buttfuck nowhere. Now, you don’t know _why_ your boss is so keen on having that sword, she didn’t bother telling you why she might need a blade made from metals not found anywhere in the physical earth, and you knew better than to ask. Still, though, that question rattles around in your head, peeking at you from a distance.

There’s a glimmery pendant that catches your eye, the teardrop shape shifting and moving around like smoke, except it’s held in place with an invisible barrier of sorts. The thing is somehow magically held against a small silver chain, and because there’s no glass to reflect the surrounding light, you can see how the dark shapes twist and writhe about. A part of you wants to purchase it, but you know better. It’s probably got some demon soul or something in there, god knows that you don’t want to bring any of this back to your baby girl.

You look back up and see Tristan staring at you from across the next row of vendors.

And you stare back, your entire body going ultimately, utterly numb for all of three seconds.

You turn around, still feeling eerily calm, and walk towards the exit. Everything is suddenly hollow, your vision blurring out as though your eyes are giving up, the surrounding noise echoing in one ear and out the other. Tristan calls for you, his voice laced with a thousand simmering emotions that you can taste in the air itself, and you break out into a run. The click of your heels punctuates your panic in sharp, crisp sounds, and you make it out into the main club in moments.

The environment is no longer a mere inconvenience at best, it’s too fucking loud, too fucking flashy, _too motherfucking crowded._ The lasers flash up, and around caged dancers, your eyes feel like pins are pressing into them. Fuck- you can’t even go out the way you came in, you realize numbly, knowing that whatever that abomination bouncer is would likely listen to Tristan’s demands a billion times more likely than fervent pleas. You need to find another way out.

There- the balcony where the second floor can look down at the dancers; there’s a table right beneath it. Wasting no time, you bolt over, jump up onto the... Wood? Plastic? You don’t know, and there isn’t time to think about it, you manage to jump just high enough for your one free hand to grasp onto the railings. One deep breath and a prayer to the god of cardio later, you manage to haul yourself up, your arms screaming at the sudden, urgent use.

You could kiss the floor in relief, but you see Tristan enter the club, hair askew, eyes wild. Two people follow him, both wearing a uniform of some kind, and that’s when your eyes meet again. He points in your direction, mouth moving, frantic, but you’re quick to start running again, shoving past a couple locking mouths in the middle of the goddamn walkway. There’s a hallway full of private rooms, for drug deals, and more… physical activities, you quietly wonder if you could maybe hide in there for a minute?

But that would depend on Tristan not tearing apart the whole goddamn place looking for you, which you have little doubt he would do. With shaking hands, you reach into your messenger bag for your taser stick, one of those good ones that expand into a baton and have an illegal voltage. God- fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ how the fuck- you get to a corner, breathing heavily, trying not to feel the sense of panic thrumming in your chest. You’ve been in stickier situations, so why are you acting like such a goddamn-

You almost run into one of the guards, his hand on a sword, his eyes looking over your body like you’re barely a mouse in a trap. You flick out the taser to its full length.

He eyes you as the tip cracks with energy, then says, “I was told not to hurt you.”

“Shame,” you say, going on the offensive.

You strike, he dodges, just barely, and seems clearly surprised at your quick movement. While he takes a step back, you hook your foot around his ankle the moment he shifts his weight, throwing him off balance enough for you to press the tip of the taser into his chest. His eyes go wide as his muscles convulse, and he’s down, face twisting with pain as you give him a more decisive, viscous jab for good measure.

Chest heaving, you keep going, hoping to find a goddamn window you might be able to escape through, but it’s all concrete and metal. Feeling like an animal trapped in a cage, you look over your shoulder to make sure he’s not behind you like some kind of ghoul, and you keep moving forward. There are footsteps down the hall, but nothing urgent… you pass a blue-skinned fae stumbling out of a room, pants half on, dick swinging around the air.

As you turn around the corner, you take this moment to find your phone, managing to send out an emergency location ping to your workplace and fucking _hope_ they get here. Not that you’re in any way eager to fully explain the situation to them, you’d rather be in a debriefing room reading a monotone statement of the supposed existence of soulmates, of which you’re not entirely sold on, even.

Tightening your bag’s straps, you continue moving, stepping over the sleeping (hopefully) body of another fae, your thumb on the trigger of the taser. You’re no longer running; instead, you’re walking as quietly as you can, slowly peeking around corners of this goddamn maze to check if he’s there. Maybe you can loop back around and try to escape through the main entrance? If they all followed you instead of alerting the bouncers, you should be fine to just… walk out. Calmly. Like nothing happened? You can do that.

“There you are,” Tristan’s voice comes from behind you, and you feel every nerve in your body fill with anxiety.

You spin around, grip tightening on the taser.

He holds his hands up, eyes dark, his body inhumanely still. Even though you gave him a run for his money, the only sign that he’s only marginally inconvenienced is the tufts of white hair poking out from the long, thick, elaborate braid trailing down his back. You wonder if he’s even gotten a trim since the last time you saw him, it’s that long, but that’s well beside the point.

“Light of my heart, scourge of my life,” he says, with no trace of gentleness in his voice, “let’s talk.”

“No,” you snarl, pointing the taser in his direction.

“Yes,” he says, palms out to show he’s not holding anything that might hurt you, “it’s been a long time coming.”

Your throat dries as you hear that word, every single cell shriveling up and rotting. The mark on your covered wrist throbs, as though trying to beckon you forward, but you effortlessly ignore the calling. “Fuck you.”

“All in due time, my love,” he says, then glances just over your shoulder.

All too late, you realize that there are people behind you, but you’re overwhelmed by the numbers and strength of fae soldiers by that time. You thrash, and you scream, but your taser is pulled from your hand, your bag’s strap cut from your shoulder, and you’re thrown through the doors of the nearest room. You’re quick to get back on your feet, he’s _in here_ with you, and the door slams, the lock clicking on its own.

“My horrible, lying mate,” Tristan says, almost charismatically, “aren’t you in a strange position.”

With a strangled scream, you tackle him, throwing your rage and your weight against his body. He goes down easy, but you’re not finished. You go for his face, punching down as hard as you can, your fingers blossoming with pain. But he doesn’t even seem to flinch, and, instead, observes you with those stupid, piercing violet eyes. Only when you wrap your fingers around his throat does he offer up a haunting smile, and you suddenly realize that he has you exactly where he wants you.

“I missed you,” he says, his voice faint from lack of air.

“I didn’t miss you,” you snarl, shaking.

“Liar,” he whispers.

You don’t respond, your eyes misting with stubborn tears you still try to will away. Given the fact that your strangling him doesn’t seem to be working, you raise your hands to wipe at your eyes. The tears don’t stop; actually, they get worse, and _worse,_ and fucking worse, and you’re suddenly bawling like a newborn babe without its mother, still straddled on his waist while trying to keep yourself from weeping too loudly.

Even after you try to struggle, he holds you. He sits up and wraps his arms around your trembling body and holds tight against the onslaught of emotions. You cry, you scream, because you’re not going back you’re not going back _you’re not going back,_ and he says nothing, only strokes your back and arms. You collapse in on yourself, but he’s there to hold you even tighter, using part of his cloak to cover your bare legs when you start shivering.

Only after you marginally calm down does he try to say anything, his voice tinged with traces of regret and desperation. “Come home with me.”

“N-no,” you gulp, wiping your face with the inside of your dress. The front comes back soaked with tears, your eyes puffing out and face tingling from the salt.

He sighs like he expected this, petting the side of your face with the hand that carries your mark, the palm still scarred from your failed murder attempt. “You spiteful, lying human.”

“You irredeemable _whore.”_ Something in his eyes changes when you say that; somehow, you think he might enjoy the reaction.

“Do you want me to beg for you?” He asks quietly, “because I will. I’ll beg for you, I’ll bleed for you, cry for you. Please.”

“What do you want from me?” You ask, feeling your temperament rise. “What else? We fucked, we laid together, we slept together, and you still wanted to stick your dick in other people. I’m done with you.”

He fiddles with your sleeve, rolling it up to expose the handprint on your wrist. “You can never be done with me, our destinies are linked, our paths are aligned.”

You hiss out a frustrated breath, wishing you had any tears left to cry. “I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m your mate, I don’t care that our stupid destinies are linked or whatever, I don’t fucking care. I don’t want you, I don’t _fucking_ want you.”

This is the first time you’ve seen those words fully sink in, and hurt flashes in his eyes. But unlike how he might have reacted years ago with anger and rage, he seems to get his biting tongue under control, offering only a quiet, soft, “liar.”

“I’m not lying!” You want to scream it from the rooftops, from the edge of a skyscraper, to whatever god needs to hear it for it to finally be true. Another shuddering breath escapes your lungs, and you place your hands over your mouth to keep from wailing.

He kisses your forehead. He kisses the last teardrops that spill from your eyes, he kisses the paths of mascara and eyeshadow dripping down your face, he kisses your nose, lips, chin, in soft, peppering little pecks that you can barely even feel because your face is numb from crying.

“Let me make it up to you,” he breathes, “let me spoil you for another eternity. Let me pleasure you until your throat bleeds from screaming my name. I’ll sing down the stars if you want them, I would set fire to the world if you need it, I would carve out my own heart and let you have it if only you would come back with me.”

Already, you’re shaking your head, mouth quivering as you think of your daughter, of how she will never, ever see a day in his court.

He doesn’t stop with his promises, “I would kill for you, I would die for you, I would start a war and ride into battle to give you honor and glory, please, my sun, my stars, my life. My sweet, angry human mate. My spiteful little witch of a woman. Please, please come back to me.”

You’re still shaking your head- you hadn’t really stopped; actually, you’ve just been shaking your head from side to side this entire time.

“What about coffee?” He tries again.

You’re so taken aback by such a basic, uncharacteristic request that you stop, processing each and every word of that sentence, and try to reanalyze it for any tricks. “Coffee?”

“That is a human custom, is it not?”

You’re so bewildered by the _human custom_ that all you can do is squint in his direction, brow furrowed, mouth open.

He’s holding you so gently, stroking your scalp. You remember his scent, that musky, herbal smell of scented oil and cologne, his arms warm and safe, lips soft and soothing against your feverish skin. You’re half laying in his lap, face buried in his chest so you don’t even have to look at him, but all your other senses are tingling with the sensations of finally being in his arms again, your chest is relaxed, your muscles like jelly.

“Come home with me,” he murmurs in your ear, his body curving against yours, tighter.

“I can’t,” you half-whisper, half sob, thinking of April, your job, and your life. The people who need you to do what you do, working behind the shadows to keep those who need it _safe_. 

“Yes, you can,” his voice cracks, you can see desperation and need, “you can do whatever you’d like, but I’m begging you, _please.”_

“You don’t understand,” you say, feeling a tightness in your chest. April will _not_ be raised in his court; she will never even know of its existence if you have any power over this. “It’s- it’s not about just me anymore.”

“Who else?” There’s a spark of possession in his eyes. “Who else is this about?”

The situation is so comical you almost burst out in hysterical laughter, but you bite down on your tongue and look away. Your neck warms as he breathes out a strangled, frustrated sigh.

“You know what?” He says, voice quiet with defeat. “I don’t care. I don’t care who it is, please, just come home with me.”

That’s even funnier. A giggle bubbles in your throat before you can even stop it. Once you start, like the tears, you can’t stop, laughter shaking your body like a plague, lungs quaking painfully, you have to remove yourself from his bewildered arms in order to calm yourself, gasping and choking on your own tongue until you manage to stifle it down to the point it’s barely an audible hiccup.

“What?” Tristan asks, placing a hand on your shoulder as though to make sure you’re breathing properly. “What’s wrong?”

“Um-” your voice wobbles. You try to get your feet, so you don’t have to fucking feel him through your mark, internally waging war on the pros and cons of telling him about the baby you had together.

“What is it?” He’s no longer flickering with anger, concern is dancing over his features as he tries to guess what you’re about to say.

Your throat bubbles, claws digging into your chest, long as knives, “um… remember- remember when we-” deep, deep breath, “when we-”

There’s a knock on the door, and you hear it creak open.

“Get out.” Tristan snarls before whoever enters have a chance to open their mouth.

It’s the guard, his face nervous, eyes dragging over your body in a strange examination. “I’m so sorry, I know you said no disturbances, but your wife says that it’s an emergency.”

You feel all the air suck out of you, lungs empty, a vacuum of space where your chest once was. _Wife. Wife. Wife. Wife._ The word plays over in your head like a goddamn comedy, everything suddenly too hot and cold at once. Tristan’s entire body tenses, then he looks over at you for your reaction, and he clearly doesn’t like what he sees.

“I can explain.” He says, voice thick with desperation and worry, standing up so fast you can see it almost makes him dizzy. And he’s reaching for you, marked hand out, as though the physical touch might make it all better somehow.

You don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to fucking hear it, you don’t want to see it, you don’t want to feel it. You’re fucking _done._ Not wanting to give him a chance to talk, you rush forward, pushing him with all of your might, managing to topple him over onto the bed frame. Something cracks as he falls, his head hitting the wood, and there’s a ghostly tingle on the back of your skull that trickles out from your mark.

Luckily, it seems the first guard gives Tristan priority, running over to check if he’s okay, giving you to bolt. You manage to dodge and evade the next one, who also takes more interest in their boss being on the ground instead of a feral, disgruntled human. Pulling down your skirt, you run back the way you came, through the sweating, dancing crowd, through the giant double doors, passed the shadowy abomination guarding the secret underworld, and onto the nearest street.

You don’t realize that you are sweating almost buckets until the night air freezes the sheen across your forehead, the spilled tears turning into icicles on your cheeks. Already shivering practically violently from the aftereffects of adrenaline and cold, you half walk, half jog down the shockingly empty street until a sleek, black car with tinted windows rolls up beside you. Already suspicious and completely wired from the previous fights, you back up to a closed shop’s window, frantically looking around for a weapon.

The window rolls down, and you see a familiar head of red hair leaning out from the driver’s side. “Jesus Christ, V, what the hell did you get into?”

 _V for Viper,_ you wince at your callsign for the first time in months, you don’t have it in you to play it cool anymore. Teeth chattering and knowing you look like you traversed hell and back, you don’t even bother offering an explanation as you move to the passenger door, letting yourself in and sighing with relief when you find the seat warmers are already switched on. “Drive.”

“Where’s the sword, or for that matter, your equipment?”

 _In the hands of the worst person possible._ “If I knew, do you think I’d be here without them?” You snap, adjusting the grate of the heaters to blow hot air directly at your body. “Someone knew who I was and tried making a magical arrest, I barely got out of there intact, so maybe _fucking drive_ before they catch up.”

He looks at you strangely, but says nothing more in argument, throwing the car into gear and pressing on the gas pedal. “It’s just that you seem… rattled.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it,” you want to scream again, but you know that’s one of the quickest ways to get a psych eval as soon as you step through the doors back on base. “I want to take a goddamn shower and sleep for eighty-five hours.”

“The boss is going to want a rundown, at least.”

“The boss can go fuck herself with an Eiffel sized dildo.”

**Author's Note:**

> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:·ﾟ✧ I wish I could see y'alls faces right now.


End file.
